


curfew

by lizamarri



Series: assholes in uniform [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Asexual Pidge | Katie Holt, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Bottom Keith (Voltron), Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Fluff and Smut, Gay Keith (Voltron), Lance (Voltron) is a Dork, M/M, Smut, Top Lance (Voltron), based on that one tumblr post, lance is just that bitch guys, let lance wear fishnet tights 2k20
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:07:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28048194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizamarri/pseuds/lizamarri
Summary: Lance is eternally, completely, ridiculously fucked.Because the time reads this: eleven twenty-three, half an hour past his curfew, and he's stuck in the middle of the city without a way to get home. A turn of events leads to a brilliant idea-- call the fucking police so they can drive him home. But what do you do when the cop who comes is twenty years old and insanely hot?Well, you fuck him, of course.
Relationships: Acxa/Veronica (Voltron), Keith & Lance (Voltron), Keith & Shiro (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron), Lance & Pidge | Katie Holt
Series: assholes in uniform [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2054577
Comments: 30
Kudos: 285





	curfew

**Author's Note:**

> yo yo yo what is up my peoples
> 
> so this is based off that tumblr post abt the girl's friend who was stuck in the city past her curfew so she called the police to pick her up but the officer was a hot 20 yr old and they hooked up. the whole thing was so klance i had to write it. 
> 
> disclaimer: personally, i think the whole cop system is fucked and a complete disaster. and honestly, this is fanfiction. it's not an ny times editorial. so just read, have fun, and then destroy the government after you've had a good mental break. 
> 
> read on, klancers! they can't kill us all :)

“FUCK!”

Lance drops his phone on the ground. He curses, bending down and groping under the dim street lights for the telltale rectangle. He grabs it with shaky fingers, before looking at the time again, just in case he’s gone blind and the thin white numbers he saw are not actually correct.

Nope. For once in his life, he’s right and it’s _bad._

Oh my god. He is _so_ fucked. 

So, so fucked. 

Because the time reads blatantly this: Eleven twenty three pm. Twenty three minutes after his curfew ended, and approximately twenty three minutes after he had a chance to live. 

“Fuck,” Lance groans. He checks the map on the bus station glass-- and, yep, the last bus ran at eleven. He quickly speed dials the first number on his phone. It rings once, then there’s a little blip of somebody picking up. 

“Pidge’s authentic stolen prescription glasses, how can I help you?”

“Pidge, you know it’s me,” he groans. 

“I had to try. I have a reputation to live up to, McClain.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lance groans. “Pidge, I need help. I’m fucked.”

He can almost _hear_ Pidge tilting her head over the line. “Isn’t Hunk with you?”

Lance shakes his head. “He left early with Shay. It was, like, nine thirty and I wanted to stay out a little longer so he said there’s buses that run to eleven but then I got a little bit drunk and lost track of the time and _pIDGE_ it’s eleven twenty--” he pauses to check his phone clock, “--four _and I am so dead.”_

“Isn’t your curfew at eleven?”

“THAT ISN’T HELPING, KATIE!!”

“Calm down, you fucking peanut,” Pidge warns. “What are you going to do?”

Lance huddles around his phone like it’s a warm fire in the middle of the wilderness. He clenches his shoulders. Is there an apocalyptic wind sweeping up the trash in the gutter, or is that just him? “I don’t know!” he hisses. “I’m in, like, the worst part of town and I don’t have enough money for a cab. Why do you think I called!”

“Dude, I’m fifteen. I can’t come get you.”

“I meant Matt!” Lance cries, desperate. “Or your parents!”

“It’s Halloween, man. My parents went to sleep an hour ago to escape the late night crowd and Matt is off getting drunk on juice boxes with his nerd friends.”

“Pidge, you’re _my_ nerd friend.”

“Yeah, but I once punched a man in the dick.”

Lance pinches the bridge of his nose. _“Pidge, what do I do?”_

“I don’t know! Can’t you call your mom?”

“Did you not hear the part where I missed curfew and am slightly drunk? My mother would eat me _alive._ My best bet right now is to get home and sneak in or pretend like I got locked out or something.”

There’s a couple moments of silence across the line. “Call… Hunk’s mom? Either of Hunk’s moms? What about Veronica? Or Marco?”

“Hunk’s moms _both_ gossip with mine on a regular basis, you know this,” Lance says, now rubbing his bridge of his nose so hard he might actually bruise it, “and all of my siblings who have access to a car all have later curfews. They’ll be out until one am.”

Pidge makes a noise somewhere between a raspberry and an evil laugh. “Well, you’re truly fucked. Might as well accept it. Maybe you can call the police to give you an escort to your mom’s house so she doesn’t kill you on the spot.”

An idea lights up in his brain-- a crazy, stupid idea-- but an idea nonetheless. He has the direct dial to his police station’s inner line on his phone; his mother is a protective woman. 

“That’s it!” he screeches.

“What?”

“I’ll call the police!” he says, and Pidge starts laughing. “No, seriously. I’m not a minor but I’m not old enough to drink, right? I could say I’m unsafe in this part of the city. Which I _am._ I can feel the possible muggings, Pidge. _Feel them._ I’m dressed in fishnet stockings on Halloween night in the middle of _mugging territory.”_

“Alright,” Pidge says through a smile he can’t see. “Go ahead with your crazy ass plan. Don’t call me when you’re in lockup.”

“No, by then I’ll _really_ have given up.”

Pidge hangs up the phone with a little click. The moment she disconnects, Lance brings his phone back down to seeing level and scrolls through his list of numbers. He stops at the cleverly named “Assholes in Uniform for When I’m Dying” and clicks before he can realize how much of a long shot this is.

It rings once. Twice. Lance clenches his eyes shut in hope. This is already set up to fail, he knows, but if it does he’s probably going to _kill himself._

On the third ring, there’s a little blip as someone answers, rattling off a standard introductory sentence. 

“Hello, I’m an at risk child in a dark street. Help me.”

The man on the other end snorts at his monotone. “You are not a child.”

“Ok, I’m nineteen,” Lance shoots back, breaking character. “But my curfew was twenty five minutes ago, there’s no buses left for me to get home, and there’s a fucking apocalypse wind blowing _and I do not trust this city.”_

“...What do you want?”

Lance sighs. “Aren’t you guys supposed to be the protectors of peace?”

“No, we spend most of our time putting people in prison for getting high.”

Lance holds back a snort. “Anyways… help me?”

“I have no idea what you want.”

Lance huffs. “For fuck’s sake, I want a ride home.”

There’s a bit of static on the other end of the line. It almost sounds like a scoff. “We aren’t a taxi cab service, dickwad.”

“Did you not hear my horrific story of how I’m utterly and completely fucked? My mom is Cuban, dude. If I’m not home by midnight, not only will I be dead, but a thousand times over.”

“And now?”

“I’m only dead once. That’s manageable.”

There’s a bit of interference over the line-- voices in the background that he can’t really make out. He catches the word ‘dickwad’ and the operator’s following sigh. After about twenty seconds of Charlie Brown parent-like conversations, the cop on the other end speaks back into the phone. He talks like he can’t believe what he’s saying. 

“...Where are you?”

Lance pumps his fist. Yes! It actually worked! “Uh…” Lance stutters, looking up. “On the corner of O and 8. You know, by the knife store.”

“God, I love that knife store,” the other end of the line mumbles. Lance’s eyebrows fly up. 

“Fuck, shouldn’t have said that. _Fuck,_ shouldn’t have said fuck either. Fuck, I did it again. Wait-- fuck-- no, oh fu--” There’s a sigh. “I KNOW, SHIRO!”

“Take your time,” Lance says teasingly.

“Fuck you and fuck that,” the guy on the other end grumbles. His voice grows a little fainter. “Shiro, if you’re going to fire me, you would have done it six months ago.” His voice gets louder again. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

The line goes dead.

Lance tucks his phone in his pocket to save what little battery he has left, debating between letting it die to have an excuse in case his mom catches him and keeping alive for emergencies.

Eh. Maybe he’ll need to play Angry Birds. Or text Pidge when the cop inevitably kills him. He can improvise. His mother may be a tough crowd, but he’s always been an _amazing_ improviser. 

The five minutes pass by in a combination of fearing the shadows and pacing nervously around the lamppost like an anxious cat. 

Finally, the low rumble of a car cuts through the quiet night. Lance breathes out a sigh of relief so hard he might be sneezing. 

The car comes to a stop in front of him-- thank god the lights aren’t blaring, it’d wake up everyone in a block’s radius. The street is strangely deserted for Halloween, as it’s a general rule that _you don’t go out after eleven around here because you could get fucking mugged._

Or other things. Lance shudders. He is very glad he’s not a girl. 

Honestly, girls have it too rough. Pink tax? Menstruation? Men with no respect for skincare routines?

Ok, Veronica does bitch about the first two, but the last one he _may_ have made up. 

His racing thoughts are interrupted by the slamming of a car door. A voice snaps his gaze up, that’s familiar and real without the accompanying buzz of a phone line. 

He looks up. Maybe the street lights aren’t that great around here, but they’re good enough. 

Because _hot damn._

If Ronnie knew he was checking out a cop, she'd probably smack him across the head and send him to a protest. But who gives a fuck about Veronica when this boy is so _unbelievably_ hot?

But, of course, he proves himself to be an idiot. 

“You don’t look like a police officer.”

In his mind, Lance is facepalming. Curse his weakness for pretty boys.

“Yeah, well, you do look like an idiot. Get in the car.”

“Oooh,” Lance says. “Bossy.”

“Get in the fucking car or I’ll make you sit in the back.”

Lance holds his hands up. “Jesus, fine. Hold your horses.” 

The police officer rolls his eyes and climbs into the car. He lights up the dash, and turns the key, and starts driving down the street. 

Lance was right. He totally doesn’t look like a police officer. He looks way too hot and _way_ too young to be a police officer. There’s no way this dude can be older than twenty one. 

His hair is swept up in a bouncy ponytail just above the nape of his neck, and paired with a cropped leather jacket and a pair of skinny jeans, so there is also _no way_ this boy is straight. 

Lance’s face breaks into a malicious smile. Maybe he isn’t good at first introductions, but there’s one thing he always excels at-- pickup lines. 

“Hey, are you from Tennessee?”

The dude turns to him, before jerking his eyes back to the road. “No, I’m from Texas?”

“‘Cause you’re the only ten _I_ see.”

There’s a moment of silence. “Oh, fuck you.”

Lance’s face breaks into a wider grin. “Do you like raisins?”

“No. Who likes shriveled fruit?”

“Well then, how about a date?”

“Please stop talking.”

“Kiss me if I’m wrong, but dinosaurs still exist, right?”

“Actually, they’ve evolved into certain types of birds over the thousands of years--”

“Are you a mic pack? Because I want you in my pants.”

“Jesus FUCK!” The dude yells, jerking the wheel to avoid hitting a lamppost. “You’re going to get us both killed!”

Lance wiggles his ass deeper into the passenger’s seat and props his legs on the dashboard. He has damn good legs, and this stranger deserves to see them. Plus, the fishnet tights he’s wearing for his costume do a pretty good job of highlighting them. “Ohhoho, so you _are_ distracted by my excellent courting!”

“Shut up,” Mystery Cop hisses. “Shut up, shut up, shut up, oh my god, and put your legs down. If I crash, you’re not going to have them anymore.”

Lance just crosses his legs. “Better not crash, then. It’d be a _crime_ to rob this world of my legs.”

“Oh my fucking _god,”_ the guy groans. “What did I do to deserve this?”

“Nothing. I’m a gift.”

“You’re something, alright,” The guy says, turning left. “This is the right way, right?”

“Yeah, like fifteen more minutes and you’re on my street.”

The cop bangs his head against the soft steering wheel. “Fifteen more minutes of hell.”

“Hey, watch the road! I’m serious about my legs!”

There’s about thirty seconds of silence before the mysterious stranger talks again. “What are you supposed to be, by the way? All I see are… um, fishnets.”

“That is a wonderful question, my gawking friend,” Lance proclaims. “I’m a cat.”

“...You literally look nothing like a cat.”

Lance gasps. “How _dare_ you? Regina George should personally victimize you. I can’t believe you just said that! I’ve pulled a Mean Girls, my friend. Any costume is a costume if you dress like a stripper and then put on a pair of cat ears.”

“...Are you sure you’re legal?”

“Yo, fuck you.”

There’s another odd half minute of silence before Lance gasps. “Kogane!” he cries.

Kogane almost jerks the car off the road. “Jesus,” he groans. “Don’t just say that!”

“Is that your surname? I think it’s your surname. Whatever it is, it’s on your walkie.”

“That’s on my belt, how did you even see…” he sighs and trails off, focusing on the road. “Ten more minutes. Ten more minutes.”

“You hurt me, Kogane. It’s actually thirteen.”

“Keith.” He turns the wheel and almost runs a stop sight. Lance fears for his legs at the sharp jerk to a stop, before speaking again. 

“What?”

“Keith. Is my name. If you keep calling me Kogane, I’m going to hit you with something. You sound like my senior year math teacher.”

“Perchance, how many years ago was that?”

“That’s not how you use that word.”

Lance pouts. “Please? I’ll tell you my name!”

“I’m perfectly happy with calling you _Ass_ in my head.”

Lance stifles a comment about how his ass is indeed spectacular, and instead bats his eyelashes. “Please?”

“...Two years ago.”

“Yes!” Lance pumps his fist. “One year age difference is doable. I’m Lance, by the way.”

“You know what else is doable?”

Lance holds his breath, hoping and praying Keith says what he thinks he will. 

“Not you.”

Lance groans. “Come on, dude, I’m really trying here.”

Keith shakes his head. “You can’t flirt with me and then call me _dude,_ you’re not a frat boy.”

“I’m wearing fishnets, who the fuck do you think I am?”

“Someone sent to torture me from the abysses of hell,” Keith deadpans. “God, ten more minutes officially.”

“It’s almost insulting that you don’t want this amazingness.”

Keith frowns. He keeps his eyes firmly focused on the road. “Unfortunately, you’re my type. That’s why I’m not looking.” He seems to realize what he said just a second late, eyes going wide. 

“Oooh!” Lance crows. “I may get laid yet. So what is your type, exactly? Spitfires in fishnets?”

“This is against, like, sixty department rules.”

“It can’t be _that_ many. Besides, fuck the police, right?”

“You do know that _I’m_ police, right?”

Lance winks. “I said what I said.” His phone buzzes in his lap, he turns it over and promptly has a fucking heart attack. 

“Lance? Are you ok?”

It’s a text from his mother. Shortly after, a text from Pidge buzzes in. _you’re welcome, fucker. just get to my house._

“Holy shit,” he murmurs. “She saved my _ass.”_

Keith widens his eyes and moves his chin forward adorably. “Who and what now?”

“My-- my friend,” Lance stutters. “She just texted my mom and said I’m staying at her house but forgot to text-- Keith! I’m saved! There will be no death for me tonight!”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Good to know. Please don’t tell me I just drove all this way for nothing.”

Lance shakes his head. “Naw, Pidge’s house is, like, three streets over. Thataway.”

Instead of driving past the intersection, Keith pulls to a stop on the deserted street by a stop sign. “Were you serious?”

“...What?”

“About fucking me,” Keith says with a little dip of his head. “Were you serious?” 

He says it so calmly, as if he’s not turning Lance’s brain to mush. “Um… yeah? You’re really hot.”

“I am breaking so many laws right now,” Keith mutters, before pulling the car into reverse and turning around. “We’re going to my apartment.”

“Oh fuck,” Lance gasps. Never in a _million_ years did he expect to work. But is he backing out now? Hell fucking _no._ Keith is one hot piece of ass-- that hair, those eyes-- oh _god_ is he hot and bothered now.

Besides, Lance looks _incredible._ He looks really fucking fantastic in fishnets and booty shorts-- both of which simulatinously show off his legs _and_ his waist. He looks like a fucking _snack_ and he deserves this.

Keith is probably going over the speed limit. His fingers are clenched around the steering wheel so hard his already pale knuckles go white. His eyes-- are they purple, or is that just the bad lighting?-- are focused, and the cords of his neck flex every time he drives the car around a curb.

Well holy fuck, Lance is looking forward to this. He types out a quick text to Pidge telling her he’ll be back really late. She sends back an exasperated emoji, to which he shoots back a happy kissing one and a very profuse thank you.   
It takes a minute, but she begrudgingly sends back a green heart. 

Finally, _finally,_ they pull into a little parking lot. Keith parks the car; the tires give a little squeak. 

Lance unhooks his seatbelt with trembling fingers. Keith throws off his own on the other side, before opening the door and sliding out in a flash. He crosses in front, and Lance, completely frozen, blinks when Keith opens the door. 

His pale skin shined underneath the dim streetlight. “You gonna get out or what?”

“Fuck,” Lance groans. He practically jumps out of the car, Keith shuts it with a slam before pushing him against it.

The cold metal of the police car presses against his back as Keith finally kisses him, and Lance has _never_ felt more rebellious. He’s gonna fuck a police officer. A twenty year old police officer. Oh my god. 

Keith’s lips are hot and insistent. Lance kisses back with everything he has. 

A warm hand trails down his bare arm to his waist, rubbing at the side of his leg through his tights. Keith hooks his finger in one of the lace holes, pulling it gently before letting it snap back.

“Fuck,” Lance gasps. “Inside. Now.”

Keith grins against his mouth and pulls Lance’s hips off the car. He grabs Lance’s hand, and walks him over to the entrance of his building. They take the steps two at a time, pausing at every stairwell to kiss like teenagers. 

“Come on,” Keith groans as he jams his key into the lock. Lance works a bruise into his neck; Keith shivers. He jiggles the knob just right, and the key slides into the lock. Keith twists so hard Lance’s surprised the metal doesn’t bend. The door wrenches open, Keith pulls him through it and shuts the door with a snap. Keith’s apartment is quiet, dimly lit by a few lamps, and gorgeously, perfectly empty of anybody else. 

_Finally._

Keith doesn’t bother to set his keys down. He just drops them on the floor. Lance grabs him by the shoulders, and pushes him against the door. 

Lance grabs Keith’s jacket and tugs it off him. As hot as it is, he wants all of Keith _right now._ The jacket is difficult to get over his broad shoulders, which makes Lance do some weird shiver he can’t quite explain. (See article 78923 of Lance When He’s Really Fucking Turned On.)

Fuck, he can’t keep going on like this. He needs Keith _right now._

He latches his teeth onto Keith’s neck, shoving his hands underneath his shirt. Lance moans into the crook of Keith’s shoulder, because _fuck,_ of course he has abs. Of course. 

Is there anything wrong with this man?

 _Yes,_ his brain answers in subconsciousness. _He’s wearing clothes._

Good point. Time to get rid of those. 

Keith tears off his own shirt, but right as Lance’s getting to work on his belt buckle, he interrupts him by sliding his hands beneath Lance’s thighs and hiking him up. Lance latches his legs around Keith’s waist on instinct. 

Oh _fuck._ Oh holy _FUCK._

Keith walks him backwards with a seemingly single minded determination-- get to the bedroom.   
Hey, he isn’t complaining.

Keith closes the bedroom door with a kick before dumping Lance on his bed. He presses their hips together, rolling smoothly, and a horrible sound comes out of Lance’s mouth. _God,_ that’s embarrassing.

He manages to get a hold of himself. “Hey, is that a gun in your pants or are you just excited to see me?”

“What?” Keith slurs, seemingly disassociated. He looks down at his hips. “Oh!” Keith struggles with his gun, before just unbuckling the police belt and pulling it off. “Yeah, I don’t want to shoot you in the dick or something.”

“Can that even happen?” Lance gasps as Keith grinds down on him and rips Lance’s shirt off.

“Like… technically? No,” Keith responds, just as breathless. “But I really don’t want to take any chances.”

“Yeah, I like my dick,” Lance huffs. “Now will you shut up and ride it?”

Keith makes a stifled noise. “Fuck,” he mumbles, his blunt fingernails catching and scraping down fishnet-clad legs. The touch sends fireworks through Lance’s veins, and he throws his head back. Keith digs his fingers into the tights. “Where the hell did I find you?”

“On a street curb at eleven thirty pm. Twenty one questions later, Mullet. Fucking now,” Lance gasps. 

“I don’t have a mullet!”

Lance reaches up and rips the ponytail out of Keith’s hair. It falls to the ground, discarded, before Lance buries his fingers in. Keith’s hair is soft, not the way his is but _naturally._ Damn this man for having perfect hair even though he doesn’t try. 

He curls his fingers and tugs. “Yeah you do.”

 _“Nghhh,”_ Keith groans, completely melting Lance’s brain into goo. “Fuck, that feels good.” He rocks his hips down, Lance can _feel_ him even through his pants, and oh _fuck_ they’re both wearing too many clothes. 

Lance’s hands travel down Keith’s back at an alarming rate. He catalogues every dip and raise in the alabaster skin with alarming speed. His hands finally slide over the curve of Keith’s ass. “Nice ass.” He squeezes.

“Fuck, _Lance,”_ Keith hisses. He drops his head down, furiously kissing down Lance’s stomach to his pelvis. Each touch sends a little spark through Lance’s skin. 

“More,” he gasps. Keith trails his tongue over Lance’s navel, and he bucks. “Fuck!”

Keith starts to smile. He skips the booty shorts completely, nipping the insides of Lance’s thigh in between the weave of the fishnets. Lance tries really, really hard not to moan, but guess what! He fails. 

Keith’s touch is like lightning against him. At every brush of his tongue, every press of his hands, of his skin, and Lance’s sets on fire. His hips are shaking so bad it looks like he’s shivering. 

“Keith,” Lance groans as he starts to work a hickey into his thigh. _“Keith!”_

Keith looks up. 

He looks positively _filthy_ lying there between Lance’s legs. Keith cocks an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Take them off,” Lance gasps. “C’mon, I know you wanna.”

Keith’s expression flutters. He drags his hand up Lance’s thigh, letting his fingers hook on the weave. 

Keith tugs off his shorts. 

“Fuck,” Lance gasps. “Yeah, come on. _Fuck._ Faster.”

Keith smiles. “Impatient.” He trails his fingers over where the tights meet in the middle, and it sends a hailstorm of phantom shivers up Lance’s spine. He stops, fingers stilling. “...How much do you like these tights?” 

For a second, Lance just stares. “What?”

“These tights. How much do you like them?”

“...I have another pair at home.”

Keith rips the tights. 

“Oh _fuck,”_ Lance groans, grabbing at Keith’s pants. “Hot. _Really_ hot.”

It’s Keith’s turn to shiver. _“Shit,_ Lance,” he gasps, scrabbling at his bare hips. Lance pulls Keith’s pants and boxers halfway down his thighs, and Keith kicks them all the way off. 

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, this is really happening. 

Keith practically climbs in his lap, straddling his waist with bare legs. He reaches over Lance’s shoulder for something underneath his bed-- he comes up with a bottle of lube.

“Gimme that,” Lance says, snatching it out of Keith’s hand. He snakes his other down and teases Keith’s rim with dry fingers. “I want to.”

 _“Shit,”_ Keith moans. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

Good question. The answer is: he isn’t. 

But he is taking his time. 

An expanse of alabaster skin lays before him, pale and lean and muscular, and just _waiting_ to be touched. He drags his hands down Keith’s chest, and then he’s leaning forward, pulling Keith down and flicking his tongue out to taste the salt of his skin. 

_“Lance,”_ Keith hisses. “Come _on,_ Lance.”

“Not yet,” he whispers into Keith’s neck. “Wanna work you slowly first.”

He weaves a free hand into Keith’s hair, pulling him where he wants to get better access to his neck. He grinds his bare hips upward slowly, feeling Keith shiver and shake on top of him with delight. 

Holy shit. Holy _shit._ He’s going to die. 

Because Keith is beautiful.

He gasps and grits his teeth to stop any sounds from coming out, and all the while his torso trembles with the effort of keeping still and letting Lance have his way with him. 

Finally, he decides to take pity.

Keith’s mouth is greedy and eager against Lance’s as he flips the catch on the bottle, pouring a little onto his fingers and warming it up before brushing against Keith’s rim.

“Yeah,” Keith sighs, almost absentmindedly. “Mm, come on.”

Lance slides in a finger. He watches with delight as Keith’s hips tremble. Keith rocks back against the contact. “More.”

Lance pushes his finger deeper. He works Keith open slowly, carefully stretching him out, and marveling at the way Keith shakes and shivers over him. Keith keeps pushing back against his hand, like he’s going to fuck himself on Lance’s fingers. “C’mon, _more.”_

“Can’t order me around in bed, Mr. Police Officer,” Lance quips with a smirk. One of his hands brushes along Keith’s hip, gently playing with the thin strip of skin over his hip bone. 

He slips in a second finger. 

Keith hisses, Lance isn’t sure if it’s in pleasure or pain. He pulls his finger out a bit, ready to retreat, and--

 _“No,”_ Keith gasps, sounding utterly wrecked. “Feels good, Lance, _don’t.”_

“Jesus fuck,” Lance swears. He bends his fingers, and Keith starts shivering again. He looks _so_ dirty, and Lance fucking loves it. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Well,” Keith gasps, grinding down on his hand. “I might be dead by the time you put your dick in me, yeah. Let’s _go.”_

Lance tilts his head. “But look at you, you’re having fun!”

It’s true-- Keith’s grinding down his hand in coordinated rolls, a little taste of what’s to come. He looks good. He looks _really_ good.

His hips… his hips move so smoothly, it’s like a wave breaking, holy _fuck._ Keith grinds down again, and swears. “Lance, come on!”

“Sorry!” Lance says, jolted out of his mind. “Sorry, you just… you look good like that.”

Keith tilts his head and grins. He rolls his hips deeply, over exaggerated for Lance’s benefit. “Like that?”

Aaaand, he’s drooling. That’s something he’s going to see in his dreams. 

But Lance knows the perfect revenge. 

It doesn't even take much effort. He curls his fingers harshly, pressing against that oh-so-sensitive bundle of nerves and dragging his fingers across it. 

Keith-- Keith fucking _screams._

His whole spine arches, and he lets out a little shriek that’s _insanely_ hot. “There,” he gasps, his voice progressively getting higher and louder. “Lance-- Lance, Lance, nghhh, oh _fuck,_ right there, _please--”_ He rocks his hips into the motion, looking positively filthy, while all Lance can do is sit there and take it, as Keith forces his prostate against his fingers. Lance starts scissoring, and Keith shakes so much he’s worried about whether or not he’s having a seizure. 

And then Lance pulls his fingers out.

“No,” Keith whines. “Lance--”

Lance tugs his hips forward. “You’re really fucking hot, you know that?” He rips open a condom and slides it over himself with shaking hands. “I swear to god, Keith, you’re going to kill me. You’re so fucking _desperate_ for it, grinding on my hand and--” He pauses to drag Keith’s hips into the right spot. “And it makes me _really_ want to fuck you.”

“Then do it,” Keith gasps, somehow even _more_ wrecked then before. He drags his blunt nails over Lance’s stomach. 

Lance pulls both of his hands back. “Go ahead.”

Keith’s violet-black eyes widen. His lips part a little, and he braces his legs before slowly sinking down. 

Oh fuck. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh _fuck,_ Keith is so tight and so hot Lance’s going to have a heart attack. He’s actually going to have a motherfucking heart attack. “Keith,” he whines. “God, you feel so good.”

Keith bottoms out with a little gasp, leaning forward and resting his sweaty forehead on Lance’s chest. 

Keith, all bravado and attitude, is laid out on top of him, barely able to breathe because of _Lance._

Fuck, he’s _inside_ Keith.

Keith slowly lifts his head. He looks down at Lance, a blissed out grin teasing on his face, before he kisses him. 

Keith’s lips are soft and welcoming, so different from how desperate they were when they first ended his apartment, or how they begged when Lance’s fingers were inside him. 

He feels like maybe it’s his turn to do that. “Keith,” He murmurs, when he breaks the kiss. Keith wiggles his hips a fraction. 

It’s _stupid_ how good that makes him feel. “Keith!” He gasps. “Keith, come on--”

“Nuh uh,” he murmurs evilly, rocking his hips. Lance’s hands grip so tight they might bruise. 

“Karma,” Keith murmurs into his ear, still moving his hips at a ridiculously slow pace. 

“Mmm _fuck,”_ Lance gasps. “Keith, you-- you look so good, so good, I-- fuck!” He bangs his head on the pillow. “C’mon, c’mon, I need you, I need--”

Keith raises his hips. Slowly, carefully. Lance revels in the drag, in the soft friction, and in how Keith’s eyes flutter up in euphoria as he goes. 

And then Keith slams back down. 

_“Fuck!”_ Lance cries out. Keith adds a moan of his own. He rises again, then brings them back down so fast it might bruise.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck,” Lance babbles. “Oh my god, Keith, you feel so good, _l-look_ so good, God--” Keith starts rolling his hips, making a real rhythm, and Lance grips onto Keith’s hips for dear life, guiding him forward, tracing over his absolutely ridiculous body. 

Keith sets the pace, riding him hard and fast, so fast Lance can hear the headboard banging against the wall. There’s something so deliciously dirty about it, knowing Keith is fucking him hard enough to move the bed.

Somehow, he manages to get a hand around the ends of Keith’s hair-- don’t ask him how. He tugs, and Keith’s hips buckle in their steady rhythm. “Fuck,” he hisses. 

“Lemme hear you,” Lance slurs. “Wanna hear you, baby, c’mon,”

“Lance,” Keith groans. He gasps for breath in short intervals, and his chest rolls and dips with the movement of his hips, his entire torso a smooth wave of motion. He’s fucking _bouncing_ on Lance’s dick and holy _shit_ does he look good. 

Lance jerks his hips forward and Keith squeaks as he hits his prostate. “Fuck,” he moans. “God, you’re-- mmph, _fuck,_ Lance.”

Everything else blurs. His entire world is Keith, Keith only, Keith riding him like a motherfucking _cowboy_ as he moans his way through it, Keith looking so ridiculously hot with waist and those abs, with those legs clenching around his hips. 

_“Lance,”_ Keith gasps. _“Fuck--_ ‘M close--”

 _“Yes,”_ Lance groans, all the while his whole world is dissolving into red-tinted euphoria. Keith gets louder the farther they go, talking higher and faster and it’s all Lance can do not to flip them around and fuck the _life_ out of him. 

When they both finish, it feels like he loses time. 

Keith breaks first. Lance is glad-- he gets to watch Keith’s body shudder and shake as he rides Lance through all of it, his head thrown back in a guttural moan. 

The heat in Lance’s stomach starts to culminate. Stars and night skies dance through his vision, a thousand constellations that spell out Keith’s name are burned into the backs of his eyes. His chest arches off the mattress, he’s making a horribly embarrassing sound but he can’t stop, he can’t, because _Keith,_ and then--

Black. Darkness. Release. 

_Euphoria._

Keith falls on top of him the moment he finishes. “Fuuuck,” he groans, nestling his head into the crux of Lance’s neck. “That was… that was too good.”

“Mmph,” Lance says in agreement. Then he comes to a blinking realization. “I’m still wearing the fishnets.”

Keith laughs into his neck. “I know,” he murmurs. “They look good.”

“My dick is also still in your ass.”

Keith frowns. He moves up, wincing a little. “Yeah, we should probably fix that.”  
They do. Later, they end up just lying on top of each other for a minute. Keith’s skin is sweaty and still hot; Lance traces absent minded patterns into his back. 

And then he starts to laugh. 

Keith pushes up to stare at him, a hand on Lance’s pec. “What is it?”

“You--” Lance giggles. “You’re from Texas, right? You said you were from Texas?”

“...Yes? I don’t see how that has to do with anything.”

Lance grins, looking up while rolling his lip through his teeth. “Dude, you just rode me cowgirl style.”

Keith’s eyes widen. Lance half expects him to send back a retort or protest, but he just rolls his eyes and sighs. “I guess you get that one,” he mumbles.

“Don’t worry, I can fuck you next time. I’ve been told I’m good with my hips.”

Keith peers up, his dark eyes big and blinking. “Next time?”

Lance smiles sheepishly. “I mean… if you want to?”

Keith’s hesitant expression breaks into a grin. “Hell _yeah_ I want to.” He drops back down beside Lance, laying his head on his shoulder. “Fuck, Shiro’s gonna kill me.”

“That’s…?”

“My boss,” Keith explains. “Who also happens to be my brother. My shift ended at midnight so I hope he just assumes it took me a while to get you home and not that I’m in a ditch somewhere.”

“You know, I usually don’t screw cops,” Lance says.

“Oh, am I your first?”

Lance frowns. “What--”

“Your first cop?”Keith props himself up on one elbow, his violet eyes sparkling with mischief. 

Lance smacks a hand across his chest like he’s having a heart attack. “You don’t believe me.”

“Mmmh,” Keith murmurs, leaning forward to kiss underneath his jaw. “Maybe. I should probably check your ID to make sure I didn’t just have sex with a minor.”

“I’m nineteen, you fuck! I’m an adult! Besides, you’re only twenty, what are you doing on the police force?”

Keith shrugs. “I skipped college.”

They talk lazily for another ten minutes or so, before Lance finally starts to get out of bed. He looks down at his legs, and laughs. “You really _did_ destroy my tights.”

Keith looks over and winces. “I can lend you a pair of pants or something?”

Lance reaches down and pulls the wrecked fishnets off his legs, while Keith watches shamelessly. “You know, I think I’m going to keep these,” Lance muses. “A souvenir of the night.”

“Oh my god,” Keith groans. “Get dressed, let me find you some pants and then I’ll drive you to your friend’s house.”

“I can drive myself!”

“The only way I would let you drive _my squad car_ was if I was already dead.”

Lance frowns. “True.”

Keith throws a pair of jeans at him. He pulls on his shorts and then the jeans over them, standing and jumping to pull them over his hips. Keith’s jeans are a little big on him-- he’s always had a small waist-- and there’s about three inches from where they end to Lance’s ankles. 

He likes them. 

“You look ridiculous,” Keith says, while tugging on his own pair of jeans. He fishes his police belt off the floor, threading it through the loops and buckling it in.

“Hey! This is true fashion you’re looking at over here. And it’s not my fault you’re short!”

Keith rolls his eyes and grabs his keys. 

The car ride home should be awkward, but it really isn't. He teases Keith the whole time, tries to steal his gun, and almost makes them crash into the curb.

It goes well. 

Keith drops him outside Pidge’s house with a two fingered salute. “Good night Lance,” he says through a smile. 

Lance leans forward and gives him probably the dirtiest kiss he’s ever had. It’s a lot of lips and teeth and tongue, and at the end, neither of them have much breath left. 

“It is,” Lance agrees. “I’ll see you later, Keith.” He fishes a pen out of the cupholder and scribbles his number on the inside of Keith’s arm with a wink. 

He steps out of the car, closes the door, and waves goodbye with a mock salute. 

Keith pulls away. 

For a moment, Lance just stands there. He stares at the stars, shivering in the October-- well, probably November now-- air, looking at nothing in particular.

“Holy fuck,” he murmurs. “Holy _fuck.”_

That was probably the best sex of his life.

After collecting what’s left of his dignity, Lance traps to the back basement door, entering Pidge’s abode of nerdiness and self-isolation. It’s mostly dark, the lack of light shrouding the video game poster that plaster the walls. Lance flicks on the light, and collapses on the giant couch in the middle of the room.

A pile of blankets next to him quivers. Pidge pops out. 

She stares at him for a second, her eyes scanning his too-small jeans and messed up hair before she comes to a conclusion. “Please tell me you didn’t sell your body for a ride home.” 

Lance splutters. “Pidge!” She doesn’t even sound sympathetic, or _caring,_ just deadpan. “Of _course_ I did not sell my body, I have more respect than _that!”_

Pidge tilts her head. “So how did you get home? Hitchhiked off the highway?”

Lance shakes his head, vindication splayed across his features. “I called the police.”

Pidge gapes. “That idea actually worked?”

Lance nods, biting his tongue through his smile. “You bet your ass it did! I got to ride in a police car without getting arrested, Pidge. _Double win.”_

She rolls her eyes. “When did you find the time to get laid, then?”

Silence. 

The longer it takes for Pidge to look up, the bigger Lance’s smile gets. Eventually, they lock gazes, and Pidge swears. “You fucking didn’t.”

“Oh, I fucking did,” Lance corrects, pulling the ripped fishnets out of his back pocket. “And I have articles of debauchery to prove it.”

Pidge covers her face with her hands. “Get those away from me,” she growls. “I can’t believe you _fucked_ a police officer. Jesus fuck, Lance, _please_ tell me you didn’t fuck someone a decade older then you.”

Lance holds up a finger. “I’ll have you know, he’s twenty and _spectacularly_ hot.”

Pidge shoves a finger down her throat and gags. “You _nasty.”_

“One year is a doable age difference!” he protests. 

“I was talking about fucking a cop, you ass. You’re not white!”

“Neither was he!” Lance protests. “Besides, can Veronica say she’s fucked a cop? I don’t think so.”

Pidge tilts her head and squints. “Actually, she can.”

Lance’s eyes bug. “Who.”

“Lance--”

_“WHO.”_

Pidge relents “...Acxa.”

“FUCK!”

“The one who busted the party you two cooked up over the summer?” Pidge reminds him. “Yeah, they totally fucked.”

“Damn it!” Lance swears. “Why does my sister beat me at _everything?”_

Pidge shrugs, leaning back against her mound of blankets. “Because Veronica’s ten times better than you.”

Lance gives her the finger. “I have better legs than she does.”

“Resident ace is backing _out_ of this conversation. And _please_ don’t tell me about having sex with Mystery Cop Man.”

Lance holds up a finger. “His name is Keith and he has a sexy, sexy, ponytail.”

Pidge stills. And when he says stills, he means _literally_ stills. Not a muscle moves or twitches. 

Lance snaps his fingers at her. “Uh… Pidge? Alive in there?”

“Does his name happen to be Keith Kogane?”

Lance almost falls off the cough. “How the fuck do you know that?”

Pidge turns to him like a possessed victim in all the horror movies. “You fucking _IDIOT!”_ She screams, launching at him all at once and smacking him around the head. “Oh my god, oh my god, _I hate you!”_

“Why!” Lance shrieks. “Pidge, I don’t deserve to die like this!”

Thank god, Pidge lets him live. “Yes you do, because you fucked Matt’s best friend’s brother, you absolute _ass!”_ She falls back and plops on the floor. 

Lance freezes. “Matt’s… Matt’s friend on the police force with the weird hair--?”

“His name is Shiro, yeah. He’s Keith’s older brother.”

“Fuck,” Lance curses. “Keith mentioned a Shiro. Does the dude happen to also be his boss?”

“Yep. What did you two do, fuck or play twenty questions?”

“I’ll have you know we fucked very much, thank you.”

“Never say anything like that ever again, you hear me?”

Lance flops back down on the couch. “...Does this mean I can’t see him again?” 

Pidge whaps him across the head. “Lance!”

“What!” he protests. “He’s really hot, ok! I bet Veronica’s fucking Acxa on the daily, that girl’s pretty damn good looking, and you’re not mad at her!”

“Yeah, because Acxa’s not my brother’s friend’s brother!”

Lance screws up his face. “You know, when you put it like that, it doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Lance!”

He splutters. “What am I going to do, apologize? I just had mindwrecking sex, I’m pretty damn happy about it!” He smacks a pillow against his face. 

Pidge groans and flops back against her blanket piles. “I still can’t believe you fucked Keith. Jesus _Christ.”_

Lance removes the pillow he had smothered over his face. “You know him?”

Pidge waves her hand absentmindedly. “I’ve met him once or twice. The dude’s a physical reincarnation of the pop punk era, and he’s gay as hell.” She smirks. “Oh, and guess what?”

“...What?”

Pidge grins slyly. “He rides a _motorcycle.”_

Lance groans and smacks the pillow back over his face. “Oh my god,” he groans into it. “I’m dead. I’m _dead.”_

“This is what you get,” Pidge says, starting to rig up Killbot Phantasm. The game powers on with a few blips. “This is what you get for the blasphemy you’ve done.”

“...I’m gonna fuck him again.”

“Lance!”

**Author's Note:**

> i love pidge she is my spirit animal and i would trust her with my life. 
> 
> ngl i've already got another 2k of this written so, yeah, there's probably gonna be a part two. 
> 
> comment!! please!! i need my Happy Juice somehow!


End file.
